My Father passed away in January of 2008 after a long struggle with respiratory issues which stemmed from years of smoking. He smoked when my sister and I were kids even when we begged him not to as we rode in the backseat of the car going on family vacations. He smoked when my Grandmother was in the hospital dying of breast cancer, from smoking. He smoked when he got up in the morning, when he cut the grass, after he ate dinner at night. It was hard to picture him at a time when he didn’t have a cigarette in his hand, up to his mouth or just lighting up another one – even though he had yet to finish the last.
My Dad was diagnosed with lung cancer in 1982. We were on a family vacation to Ireland and England when he first got sick. Five years later, and after a quarter of his right lung had been removed, my Dad was declared cancer free. But, the years of smoking had taken it’s toll and would linger with him and cause many medical problems for the rest of his life.
The months after my Father passed were some of the most difficult of my life. Not only had my Father died, I had left a job I’d had for a dozen years, I had recently gotten divorced, and two of my beloved golden retrievers had died. Like most things in my life, when things get tough, I jump in and fight.